


by the grace (of hatred in my veins);

by thedarklings



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Connor going off the deep end, Emotional Hurt, Established Relationship, F/M, Gen, Robot/Human Relationships, Ruthless!Connor Appreciation Club, aka don't touch Reader or ELSE, you'll have Machine!Connor to deal with
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 06:23:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,276
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16907793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedarklings/pseuds/thedarklings
Summary: “I was not built to be kind.”





	by the grace (of hatred in my veins);

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally requested by one of my followers as a birthday present. I hope you enjoy <3

Loving you wasn’t a choice.

A choice is something you consciously make, something you fully understand and  _accept_. Connor never chose to care, never chose to crumble at the sight of your smile, or adore the feeling of your skin on his; he never  _asked_  to be so completely enchanted by you.

It simply happened.

The way the sun rises, the way the tides change, the way the wind blows—some things in this world simply happen and no one can change them.

Loving you was never a  _choice_. Never even an  _option_. For him, it was eventuality; a grand, terrifying adventure he was destined to go on. The same way some things in the universe are simply meant to happen.

No, not a choice  _at all_.

Perhaps, from the very start, every part of him was simply meant to love you.  

**———**

“Connor, c’mon son, it’ll be alright,” Hank says, his hand tight on his shoulder, but Connor can barely hear him, can barely compute the data entering his program. “We’ll get (Name) back. Look at me. We  _will_. Connor, damnit, say somethin’.”

But he can’t. He can’t force anything through his audio output because his entire being is focused on the picture in his hand.

Because you are in it, and it’s not a  _happy_  picture. You are tied up, and crying and he feels a terrible emptiness suddenly opening up beneath his feet at the pure terror on your face. But perhaps the worst part is the words scrawled in angry, red ink just beneath.

WE’LL RETURN YOU THE PIECES WHEN WE’RE DONE

Connor can feel something unhinge itself deep in his chest, in that private, shining space you live. In the loving part of him that only you hold, only you have access to. It ices over and a frightening sort of fury starts to bloom in its place.

_PIECES_

The very idea sets his program into disarray because he knows what these people are capable of—what they can do—and returning you in pieces would be a kindness, a  _gift_  in comparison what they are known for.

Hank is saying something, but it's a dull, white noise as Connor pulls back, his world tilting on its axis as he walks out of the room. There’s commotion and  _people_ , but he cannot see, cannot even feel them. There’s only the idea of you being gone that burns through his system. The idea that he will never see you again, never kiss you or touch you or be able to tell you just how much he loves you that chips away at him.

In fact, the thought is so painful, so  _sickening_  that he stumbles outside your apartment, clenching the wooden beam for support till he can hear the groan and splintering of the wood—feel the structure crumble under his strength, and for the first time in his entire existence he’s  _glad_  he’s not human. Because he knows that if he was, he would be sick right now. Would lose his damn mind from the crippling terror he feels.

“ _A machine built to obey_.”

Amanda.

“ _I love you for who you are, nothing else matters_.”

You.

The shining memory of warmth and love as you said those words to him for the first time. The very first time in his existence that he felt wanted, and important; not because he had a duty to do, but because  _you_  needed him.

The abyss beneath him is beckoning louder, clearer, and Connor wants to sink into it so badly but the memory of your voice and your lips stops him. Anchors him in a hurricane that is his emotions.

“ _What are you really Connor?_ ”

Hank.

A machine. An android. Not  _alive_.  _I am_ …

“—s _o loved. You have no idea how happy you make me Connor. I never thought I’ll ever meet someone that I could love so much_.”

Loved. By you. Unconditional, human love that warms him and centres him. You are the only constant in his life. The only  _good thing_ —

**P I E C E S**

noun  
plural noun: pieces  
1.  
a portion of an object or of material, produced by cutting, tearing,  _or breaking the whole._

He tries to ignore the error messages that appear in his vision, tries to control the wild pump of Thirium through his system but a thousand different versions of the word PIECES is the only thing he can see, the only thing he can hear echo.

“ _What is the one thing that matters most Connor?_ ” Amanda asks, now only a deadly shadow from his past he rather forget.

“ _My mission_.”

He can almost hear the smirk in her voice, “ _Then accomplish it. That is your only function._ ”

The darkness beckons closer, and closer, and…

“ _Please, don’t_ ,” your voice, faint and distant pleads, “ _Don’t do this Connor. I beg you._ ”

He can almost feel the touch of your fingers against his cheek, feel your familiar warmth and it makes a strangled sort of sound escape his lips. Because this vision of you is beautiful and whole—the complete opposite to what you might be right now.

_Bruised and broken beyond repair._

“I  _love_  you,” he swears, he promises, he beseeches to whoever might be listening, “This is why—I have to—to get you back— _I can’t_ —I’m sorry,” he whispers, like he hopes that it will justify what he’s about to do, what he’s about to unleash upon this world.

Hank calls his name urgently just behind him, but he doesn’t listen, doesn’t  _care_  to listen. He holds the phantom of you by his fingertips, knowing that soon he will be holding you again, or burn this city to the ground in the effort to get you back.

Your phantom smiles; but it’s a sad, crumbling sort of thing that makes him hurt more.

He feels himself tip towards that cold, dark place inside of him until it swallows him whole.

And what’s left standing is not a monster, but it’s not quite Connor either.

It’s something worse than both.

**———**

**INITIATE SYSTEM?**

| _YES_ |

**…:SETTING MISSION PARAMETERS:...**

| _MISSION OBJECTIVE **SET**_ |

Lieutenant wants to say something.

Connor can tell because the man is tense, and frowning so fiercely it is surprising his face hasn't set permanently.

Connor thinks he knows why. He hasn’t worn his old CyberLife jacket since the Detroit Revolution as it is now officially referred to. He was no longer just a machine obeying orders; he had an identity, a family, he had  _you_  and that made parting with his jacket easy. So easy, in fact, that he’s never once thought about it till now.

Now, the familiar stitch of RK800 is illuminated once again. Because he has a mission, a mission he cannot fail—refuses to fail, refuses to even  _consider_  failing—and he knows he cannot do it any other way. That he has to detach himself from what he was— _is_. Even now everything in him is beating, whispering, shouting your name in fear, in love, maybe in doubt too. He knows the facts, he knows how likely it is you might already be—

His jaw clenches, and he ignores the unsteady flickering in his program, ignores the Lieutenant's heavy stare too. Connor would typically ask what’s wrong, would want to hear the man’s thoughts because he respects him. But right now he can’t waste time, and asking Lieutenant questions is both a waste of time and completely unnecessary for his mission.

Instead, he grabs his gun, checks the clip automatically, feeling the weight of it in his hand. It’s not surprising, really, how easy this is to him. This was what he was built for after all, and sharpness comes back so very quickly to him.

“You’re gonna get yourself killed,” Hank finally snaps, a scolding sort of bite to his voice, “Is that what you want? For (Name) to come back home and learn that you got yourself killed?”

“And what would you have me do?” Connor asks snidely, a bitterness in his tone that he knows should not be directed at the Lieutenant. “Sit back and do  _nothing_  while the only precious thing to me gets tortured and bled dry? Unfortunately, Lieutenant, I’m afraid I do not agree with your weak human logic.”

Something flashes across the older man’s face—a hurt, perhaps—but his scowl is more impressive and the unfamiliar emotion fades away quickly. “Of course not, dammit, but not like  _this_. Not when you look like—”

He feels his head turn slowly, and Connor knows that the look he gives his partner is anything but warm. “Like what, Lieutenant?”

The man lets out a groan; a frustrated and heavy sort of sound, before he replies, “Like you’re about to walk into a burning building with no intention of walking back out,” he tells him seriously. “There’s no magic solution this time, Connor, no comin’ back. If you die, you die. Trust me, I know how you feel—”

“No, Lieutenant, you do not,” Connor cuts him off, and he can feel the burn in his chest getting stronger,  _fiercer_  and that’s a very dangerous predicament for anyone to be in. “What happened to your son was a terrible accident. It was a true tragedy but there was nothing  _you_  could have done differently.  _I_  can still save (Name), and I would advise you against trying to stop me because I am not feeling particularly gracious right now.”

“For fucks sake,” Hank mutters angrily. “I care for (Name) too, idiot. I’m not tryin’ to stop you just—”

Under different circumstances, Connor thinks that the sentiment Lieutenant was trying to put across would have warmed him, made him feel proud perhaps. The man clearly cares for him enough to worry about his life, but his concern won’t change anything.

For him, there’s only the mission.

Lieutenant takes a hesitant step towards him, and lays his hand heavily on Connor’s shoulder, giving it a little shake. “Just come back  _alive_ , got it?”

Connor’s eyes slide to meet his partner’s and he nods, just once, “I intend to,” is his dark promise, and for a brief moment he can see Lieutenant hesitating, unsure if he should really let him go.

But he makes that decision for him when brushes past the man, briefly fixing his tie on the way out.

He knows his mission, he knows what he must do in order to complete it, and nothing will stand in his way now.

———

“ _What are you doing Con?_ ”

The phantom whisper of your voice against his ear makes him flinch. It’s such a human reaction to display that he can’t help but frown. He wonders, then, if there is any part of him still left that hasn’t been fundamentally changed by you.

You lean against the wall beside him, expression relaxed but with worry in your eyes that makes him itch.

“I’m getting you back.”

Your head turns and you look at him with disapproval he’s not used to seeing, “ _And how much blood will you be spilling on your way to save me?_ ”

He doesn’t hesitate in his reply, “Every last drop of it, if that’s what it takes,” he replies harshly, and feels that burn in his body again, driving him forward. The disapproval on your face intensifies and he feels frustration stab his chest. “What would you have me  _do_  (Name)? They might be killing you right now.”

“ _Be kind_.”

He can feel his face twist at your words. Of course, you would not understand. You’ve always been too  _good_ , too  _kind_ ; a beacon of happiness, not destruction.

“You’re just a figment my unstable system has conjured up,” he remarks instead, and his attention turns towards the building you were being held in. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

His gaze still lingers on you before he moves. Lingers on your lips, and your eyes, and he has to battle his yearning for you with desperation he’s unfamiliar with.

“I was not built to be  _kind_ ,” he reminds you coldly, voice resolute as he pulls out his gun.

He tries not to lean into your hand when you graze it against his cheek sorrowfully. But a figment of you is not enough, he wants your  _real_  fingers to touch him.

So he pulls back, closes his eyes and when he opens them again you are gone, nothing more than a whisper of wind against his ear.

P **I** E  **C**  E  **S**

It echoes; and piece by piece, piece by piece, he rips everything warm and gentle right out of his very being. He buries it deep, in those lonely cracks of him that belong solely to you.

**_PIECES_ **

How  _appropriate_.

How  _fitting_.

Since he plans to destroy everything in his path, and leave nothing but  _pieces_  behind.

**———**

For a human, the job of getting inside the building would have been a difficult one.

But Connor is not human.

The security system on the door is childishly easy to hack and the door opens to him as if welcoming him inside.

He moves hurriedly, but not fast enough to draw attention right away. He doesn’t care if he’s recognised or not. They know he’s coming, or will be coming soon, so they will be prepared regardless.

Mission objectives flicker before his eyes and he follows the path deeper into the building—some old factory by the looks of it—as he searches for any signs of human life.

The first target stumbles upon him without meaning to, and clearly takes no active interest in stopping him either. The man probably doesn’t even realise  _who_  he is until Connor grabs him by the throat and slams him against the dirty wall.   

And once the man blinks his shock away, his disbelief, his watery green eyes take Connor in and he smiles, “We knew you would come, we—”

Connor tightens his hand on the man’s throat and he doesn’t so much as shift when the man rakes his nails across his arm, trying to breathe, “I will ask you a series of questions,” he begins, an emotionless tilt to his words. “And you will have ten seconds to answer them, if you don’t, I will  _break_  you piece by piece.”

The man starts turning purple before Connor releases his tight grip just a little, “Is the hostage still alive?”

The man says nothing, an ugly, mocking sneer on his face. Connor feels a shimmer of icy fury, and looks the man right in the eye as he snaps his wrist.

The bones crumble effortlessly; Connor doesn't even register resistance or difficulty. His system settings are all set to maximum capacity, and he knows that for a human, that type of raw strength is devastating.  

He smothers the howl of agony from the man easily, expression uncaring as he watches the man shake. It’s a miserable little display that makes Connor frown because he does not have the time nor the patience for this. He grabs the broken wrist and holds it tightly. “Shall we try  _again_? Is the hostage alive?”

“Y-Yes!”

Connor tilts his head slightly, mouth a harsh line as he feels something like hope, something like  _joy_  flare through him. “Where?”

The man shakes his head and Connor narrows his eyes, swiftly calculating the best angle before he drives his fist right into the man’s elbow. Bones crunch loudly, jarringly, and he wastes no time turning the man’s face upwards so he chokes on his agony.

The limb is useless to him now. Open breaks are always slowest to heal, and most difficult to recover from. Connor calculates the damage and almost smiles. The bones will heal with time, but the man will never be able to use his arm in the same way again.

“I asked  _ **where**_?”

The man is gagging; wheezing loudly too, and Connor frowns in dismay, giving the man’s quivering body a sharp shake. “ _Focus_. I asked you a question.”

“Ba- _basement_.”

Connor’s eyes flicker around, scanning the building and mapping a mental layout of the structure. He pulls up the official planning documentation stored in the city database, and calculates that he is two floors above the basement.

 _Close_ , so close he can feel his entire body tense with anticipation.

You are  _alive_ , and you are  _close_.

He doesn’t bother looking at the man as he strikes his carotid arteries in one sharp move. The man gasps painfully, immediately slumping over unconscious. A small mercy; given to him only because he told Connor you are still alive. He then deprives the man of his two guns easily, sliding them behind his back.

There is a clear path he cuts towards the basement, a purpose and a heaviness in his stride. His steps are crisp and loud—they bounce and crawl across the empty corridors and it’s not long before the sound of chatter reaches him. He slows, slides his guns out and steps into the room the same way a friend would.

But he is Death—ready to reap the souls of those who stole you—and any mercy he is capable of long since left him.

They thought they could take you from him; steal you away,  _hurt_  you, and that he would not come for them, would not pay them back with  _blood_.

How  _pathetically_  naive of them.

The first 3 men fall dead before they even realise what’s happening.

The commotion is immediate, and a man rushes at Connor from his right. His reaction is faster—it always  _is_ —and he swipes the butt of his gun across the man’s temple, knocking him sideways. The sound of multiple gun triggers being pulled registers in his system and Connor lunges towards the falling man, roughly jerking his body sideways.

The bullets hit the man like a devastating hail. Connor doesn’t wait for others in the room to realise he’s not dead. He aims his own gun over the human shield and fires. Another two men crumple right away because Connor doesn’t miss, doesn’t have it in him to miss right now.

He looks at these men and sees cattle, obstacles,  _insects_  that are simply crawling in his way.

He wants to obliterate them from existence.

Connor’s proximity sensors detect another man rushing at him from the left and he throws the now useless human shield to the side, swiping his leg without looking. The kick lands—a loud, scraping sound that screeches loudly even in the chaotic room—and the man stumbles to the floor from the sheer momentum. Connor aims his gun at the man’s head, but his sensors detect the impact from behind seconds before it happens as another man launches himself onto Connor’s back.

His biocomponents adjust to the additional weight immediately, system flaring with warnings and suggestions on the best course of action as the man wraps his arms around Connor’s neck. He feels the graze of the enemy gun against his neck and frowns slightly.

**\- SHOOT**

**\- SACRIFICE**  

Shooting the man in front would only waste time, and give the assailant on his back a better chance to damage him. With that conclusion, Connor turns his pistol swiftly and places it against his stomach.

Components #8496w and #3058d are important for conjoining his torso parts together. They also allow to perform quicker and deadlier manoeuvres, opening the gateway for more optimal, proficient damage each time. Still, he can lose one of them without critical system damage.

He feels the bullet slice through him—no pain, just the sensation—and he knows the exact angle he sends the bullet in so it causes him minimal damage. The man behind him jolts, releasing a gasp of pain as the bullet rips into him, and Connor slams his head back, smashing it into the man’s face. He grabs his opponent by the vest and throws him at his friend on the floor who is trying to aim his gun at Connor.

The impact of two human bodies is messy and loud, and Connor thinks that he is doing them a favour when he silences them both with two bullets to the head.

He keeps track of the gun clip, and knows he’s empty the exact moment he registers a bullet scrape against his artificial skin. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t cry out in pain the way a human would. He simply looks over at his shoulder, sees the brightness of Thirium as his arm bleeds, and moves his gaze towards the man who is meters away holding a gun.

Connor doesn’t know hesitation—doesn’t currently comprehend it—so for the human in front of him, it’s over in a matter of seconds.

Connor dives forward, grabs the man’s arm, slams his fist into the unprotected elbow, and shatters the joint on impact. Precious seconds melt as Connor pulls the man closer by his broken arm, his leg fracturing his Fibula with one precise kick as well. There’s raw fear in the man’s eyes when Connor steps closer, wraps his hands around the man’s neck and sharply twists it to one side, the loud crack resonating through the now silent room.

“ _You cannot deny the truth Connor,_ ” Amanda sneers from beside him, tone almost pitying. “ _No matter how long you play at being human, you will always be **this**. A weapon built for destruction and nothing more._”

_This._

For a moment he stands still, and takes everything in.

Takes in the dead men, the terrible quiet of the  _now_ , and lets his eyes flutter shut for a second. Something human, something  _painful_  scratches at the back of his chest but he forces it down,

down,

down.

He opens his eyes again; looks at the bodies, looks at the spilled blood on the floor and feels  _nothing_. Not even as your phantom stares sadly at him from the doorway, a devastated expression on your face.

“I’m  _your_  weapon (Name),” he tells you softly. Even though Amanda laughs, and laughs, and laughs in his mind. Even though you turn away as if you can’t bear to look at him.

For a moment, nothing logs in his system as he stands and stares after you. You flicker out of his vision the same moment loud, hurried footsteps reach his sensors.

**...CALCULATING…**

**NUMBER OF TARGETS:**  3

He slinks towards the wall immediately, presses against the cold surface and leisurely checks his empty guns while he waits for the men to burst into his trap.

Too easy.  _Always_  so easy.

The men rush in together, guns raised and more heavily armed than their predecessors.

 _Not that it will make any difference_ , Connor thinks critically and launches himself into action from behind them.

The empty gun in Connor’s hand strikes one of them in the head with a sickening crunch, making the man stumble. Connor uses the moment of confusion and rips the man’s gun from his hand, shooting him right through the temple. Ducking seamlessly to one side, he rolls across the floor before he empties another two shots into his target.

The human body is so soft and susceptible to damage. Even with all the armor protecting them, Connor can find the weak spots with a single glance. He can calculate a hundred different scenarios in time it takes them to  _blink_.

Connor swivels to one side, three shots hitting the spot he’s just been in. The last man standing is different; more ferocious, better trained and he attacks Connor with strength that is rare to find in a human. Connor aims the gun nozzle at him but the man slams into him, grabs the gun and turns it towards the floor as bullets fly free. The man brutally smashes him into a wall as they struggle with the gun between them.

Connor stares at the man steadily, assessing, almost entertained by the bloodthirstiness. In reply, the man glowers at him, trying to force the gun towards Connor’s chest. “I’m going to  _kill_  you, you plastic prick,” the man spits out bitterly, shoving and squeezing the gun closer to his target.

Something like amusement glimmers through Connor, and he feels his eyebrows rise slightly, mockingly, “Is that so?” he questions coolly.

Connor  _is_  amused, he realises distantly, because this human—this weak collection of muscles and bones—fancies his odds against the Finisher of his own kind.

Fancies his odds when Connor’s mission, his end goal, is to get  _you_  back.

There is  _nothing_  on this Earth that can stop him from accomplishing this task.

Connor regards the man tepidly, and maintains his stare as the shift and  _snap_  of his biocomponents fill the air between them. The man falters in confusion at the odd sound, and system damage prompts appear in Connor’s vision as he viciously twists his wrists from the man’s grip instead.

His hand lashes out ferociously and he grabs the human by the back of his head. Connor lingers for a second, takes in the naked fear reflected before him, and does not give this human a chance to react as he places the gun against his neck and pulls the trigger. The recoil shakes his damaged wrist but he still feels the bullet propel through skin and tissue. He still feels splatters of hot blood land on his face even if he doesn’t look away from the dead man.

“I guess you’re not killing me after all. How  _disappointing_.”

He carelessly lets the body go, gravity dragging the corpse to the ground. He doesn’t look at others because he’s wasted enough time on these dead men.

Connor moves silently through the now empty corridors, and checks the clip again to find another four bullets residing inside. It doesn’t matter. Even if he runs out, his biggest weapon has always been his own two hands.

The stairs leading to the basement are steep, and unprotected. It makes Connor wonder if the last three men he faced were a last-ditch attempt to stop him. His grip on the gun does not relax, does not falter as he kicks the door in abruptly. Wood screeches noisily as it splinters in every direction, comes clean off the hinges, and falls to the floor deafeningly.

The man responsible for everything is familiar—his name has appeared in DPD criminal database before—and Connor unflinchingly levels the gun on that pale face. The man grins at him but there is such human fear in his eyes, he practically  _reeks_  of it and Connor feels his expression harden.

Because the man has a handgun pressed against your neck, arm tight around your chest as he uses you to shield himself.

And then there’s you.

The sight of you; of your bruised and bleeding face, of your split lip and tear stained face sets a storm loose inside him. It’s like a hurricane suddenly appeared in broad daylight and Connor knows that if it wasn’t for you, wasn’t for the fact you need him right now, he would take his time in dealing with this man.

 _Slowly_.

“As you can see, if you think about shooting me, I’ll splatter—”

_**BANG** _

The man slumps to the ground, and his body weight drags you with him.

How arrogant, how naive, to think that Connor will let him finish. Let him harm you more. If this man expected to kill him, he should have done so the moment Connor broke through the door. That brief moment was the only real chance he had.

Comparing their reaction times isn’t even a competition. Connor will always pull the trigger quicker.

The man grapples for his fallen gun but Connor steps deliberately on his hand and kicks him over on his side. Blood gushes freely from his wounded shoulder, his face shining with sweat as Connor tilts his head clinically. Using someone smaller than you is not a very efficient way to protect yourself against an android with deadly accuracy.

“There is something I want you to know before I deprive you of your life, Mark Irving,” Connor says lowly, something merciless and arcane in his tone. The man is still and silent and so terrified, Connor almost smiles again. “I will return your  _pieces_  when I’m done.”

The gunshot is ear-shattering in the enclosed space, and even though the man is dead, Connor does not lower his hand, almost considers putting another bullet in his head but a sound of a whimper reaches him first.

He drops the gun immediately and turns towards your crumpled figure.

He moves towards you, drops to his knees heavily, everything spinning as he tries to reach for you.

“ _(Name)_ ,” he whispers like a prayer, like a plead, as he scans your body for damage.

But you flinch away before he can touch you, and Connor feels every piece of him lock, still, and then  _crack_.

“ _You will always be **this**_.”

 _m_ a _ **ch**_ in _ **e**_ / **m** a **c** h _ **in**_ e/ _m_ a _c_ ** _hine_** / _ **ma**_ c _ **h**_ in **e**

_m o n s t e r_

He was yours, all yours, and if you didn’t want him, then what was he?

“I w-was  _scared_... I-I thought...” you mumble, voice cracking unsteadily, “I thought they were going t-to  _kill_  me. I was so  _scared_.”

“ _(Name)_ ,” he forces out again, heavily, and watches the way your curl into yourself as you turn your head towards him. Your eyes red from crying, and so wide as they take him in.

You blink once, twice, and your expression slackens as fresh tears roll down your cheeks. “ _Connor_ ,” you cry out weakly, and reach for him, your palm against his cheek.

Your fingers tremble, but he can feel your  _warmth_ , your  _gentleness_ , the erratic pulse fluttering in your wrist that causes him to melt into  _nothing_.

His hand snaps up, and presses your fragile human fingers closer to his skin, eyes closing as he feels a shudder roll through his body. He repeats your name again, and  _again_  and realises that he can’t  _stop_  because you warm every piece of him, and he can feel the ice in his frame thaw with relief.

“Connor?” this time your voice is worried, delicate as you shuffle closer to him. “Connor, oh god, you’re injured. Connor?”

 **.:SYSTEM DAMAGE:**   _32%_

..: _NO CRITICAL DAMAGE DETECTED_ :..

“I’m fine, (Name),” he answers, and his eyes open, peering at you with longing, “I thought I lost you—”

He finds that he can’t finish the sentence, and it surprises him.

Such weakness. Such  _human_  weakness.

“Oh, Connor,” you breathe in quiet understanding, thumb brushing against his cheekbone lovingly, “I just want to go home. P-Please take me home,” you plead desperately, and Connor doesn’t need to be told again.

He reaches for you and hesitatingly wraps his arms around your body, mindful of your injuries. You press close, so close that his arms automatically tighten around you until he’s holding you in a vice-like grip. Part of him feels like he can no longer separate his edges from yours, and he relishes in the sensation. Relishes it because with you in his arms, he can feel the storm in his mind and body settle. Fade away into nothing as he lays a lingering kiss on top of your head.

Your fingers grasp tightly onto his jacket in reply, and Connor almost sighs at the feeling of you in his arms. Where you belong, and where  _he_  belongs, holding you.

He wants to burn this building to ash. So a place to cause you both such pain would be wiped from existence forever.

But that will come  _later_.

First, there is you. Only ever  _you_.

**Author's Note:**

> an: the idea of deviant!connor being so emotionally distraught over the idea of losing you that he feels like he has to revert back to his ruthless self to save you because he can’t handle the mission... honestly destroys me but it’s incredibly fascinating too. (maybe) i’ll adore you was very much a test run for connor’s pov, and a lot of you liked it so I decided to challenge myself in writing this entire piece in his pov (I also feel like the nature of the request called for it, you know?). 
> 
> But writing Connor’s POV, in present tense (something I’m very new at but feel like reflects his character better) and with all those action scenes??? *lies down for five years* The amount of analysing I had to do on his fighting style, choreography, and trying to put it across well in this story...oh man...any feedback on those scenes would be really appreciated because I’m trying to learn how to do action scenes better!


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